When we’re both old enough to order a beer, you and I, I’m going to take you for a week on the road. I’ll drive and soon you’ll be singing along with me to that James Taylor you’ve never really loved. Your voice is better than I’ve always hinted. We’ll sit, car doors fanned open and touch the bare soles of our feet to the hot pavement of the Walmart parking lot and I’ll run in to grab some gummy worms (the sour ones).
We’ll camp or maybe watch movies long into the night at a Holiday Inn. We’ll talk about love and heartbreak. On the road again you’ll hook up your music-I’ll probably enjoy it more than I let on. Or, most likely, it’ll become my jam two years down the road since your taste is generally a predictor of mine.
We’ll hit up a bar in a town that we’ll probably never visit again and you’ll encourage me to go talk to that guy over there across from us.
At some point you’ll get confrontational and I’ll get restless and we’ll fight. I’ll walk off and you’ll probably call mum (geez!). You won’t actually bring up our argument though, you’ll just let her know we’re safe and still on the road.
I’ll try to light a campfire but it’s windy and I’ll give up. You’ll do it first try. We’ll share a beer and make smores. In the morning I’ll get up late and cook a surprisingly good breakfast of canned beans. I’ll do most of the packing up, disgruntled while you argue that, not only are you helpful, but you’re doing more than I am. We’ll both remember that great, quirky consignment store we stopped at on the way back. I’ll silently regret not having purchased those pants. Moments later: ‘You would’ve rocked them, actually,’ you divulge.
We won’t see as much of each other for a while after our trip, and we probably won’t notice.